


Palimpsest

by Davechicken



Series: Prince of Omens - Egyptian AU [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Warning for theology, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 00:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20921015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: The angel gets a visitor he did not expect.





	Palimpsest

He has never needed to bolt his door. Why would he? There aren’t many who come to visit him, not nearly as many as he thinks he would like. Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, so he’s never in any danger, and he knows the slight aura of mystique he’s perpetuated as a shield will hold off all but the most determined of burglars. Superstition runs high in a land like this.

So when the door creaks open long after nightfall, he perks up from his lamp-lit desk and blinks owlishly past the halo it casts.

Two amber eyes glint like caught suns, followed by the rest of the demon.

“Angel.”

“Crowley… what a pleasant surprise!” It is, actually. And he’s caught by that idea before any concept that it could be untoward. The thoughts simply travel in one direction, not the other. “However did you find me?”

“Could say I hunted you down,” comes the snake-like flick of tongue, “...but you’re the only place still lit up this late.”

Oh! Oh yes. Everyone else will be keeping the customary hours. Sleeping. Human things. He smiles, and waves to the long bed-like chair he never uses, unless he wants to stretch out when he’s reading. And for appearances.

Crowley immediately whirls around to blanket the furniture with his too-long limbs, bending and curving like he’s forgotten bones exist. It leaves a tempting flash of upper leg, and his hair tumbles down behind him as he gets comfortable.

“Is this a social call, or…?”

“Could be both.” Crowley is steadfastly looking at the simple ceiling. “You know. Check up on key points. Check up on… you know.”

Each other. It is a job, after all. No, a profession. A vocation. A sacred duty. 

And Crowley is the only one who really… understands that. Even his own side have no appreciation of what it’s like, down here. It’s… messy. Complicated. Layered. People are messy, complicated, layered. Aziraphale isn’t so sure he understands himself, but at least he’s confused with company.

“How goes… tempting?” He wonders if he should even ask.

“Oh, you know. Pretty easy at the minute. Downstairs don’t really care to check who I’m talking about, so I can just send the latest courtly drama from the residents. Tell them about animal worship and incest - actually, is that one even a no-no? - unclear. But yeah, I just give them the latest gossip and take the credit. Not so much of a challenge right now.”

He doesn’t know if he should be pleased or not. On the one hand, Crowley isn’t interfering with Humans, and therefore is leaving his charges alone. On the other, that means the locals are not… doing great. And it’s not like Aziraphale can convert them, or would that even help right now? Hmm.

“What about you? Any blessed m--- wait, what’s that?”

“What’s? Oh. It’s papyrus. It’s reeds turned into a storage material, so they can keep information longer than the wax slates, and--”

“I know what papyrus is, angel. I do understand technological advances.”

“Oh…”

“I meant: what are you reading?”

“...nothing interesting.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“No, but--”

Crowley is up and circling, moving closer, and Aziraphale tries to cover the sheets with his hands, flustering. 

“C’mon. If you’re hiding it, it must be good.”

The truth is, most of the writing is official documents and shipping manifests. The only truly interesting texts… they’re sort of… blasphemous? He shouldn’t be reading them, even as works of fiction. “It’s the Book of the Dead,” he says, mournfully. 

“Oh! Anything about me in there?”

“...what have you been doing?”

“Nothing you’d approve of.” Crowley puts his hands on the back of his chair, then squints over. “Ugh. What happened to all the triangles?”

“It’s pictograms now. They’re called ‘hieroglyphics’.”

Hair brushes against his neck, and Aziraphale stops breathing. He’s so close. So, so close.

“Read it to me?”

“...you… really?”

“If it’s interesting enough for you, I want to hear. I could fetch some wineskins.”

Oh. That. That almost sounds nice. Aziraphale smiles, because Crowley is walking away from him to the small larder. “I’ll need to start from the beginning.”

“I’ve got nowhere else I need to be. Not due to report in for - well - whenever I feel like it, right now. I just blame transport delays if I need a break.”

Wine shared, the demon moves back to the couch-bed, and arranges himself comfortably. Aziraphale has never had anyone to share this with. The children of Israel have to be kept to the Word, and he daren’t suggest that the Egyptian texts are anything less than true in case someone takes umbrage and his life. 

But he enjoys reading them, all the same. Some of the tales in the wider mythology seem to be Humanity’s way of exploring and understanding their universe, and - though it’s terribly treacherous to think it - he sees very many commonalities across… these… pagan ways. Commonalities that cross against Her own truth.

A deep breath, and - in his best voice - he starts to read.


End file.
